Bigfoot Beach

by Kristopher Rufty

  It was probably one of those pillow-biters broke into Walt’s store the other night.

  That scent returned, trying to nauseate Harold. He pinched his nose, rubbing his nostrils with his fingertips as if he could pull out the residue of the smell.

  Then he bumped into Bobo’s hindquarters, nearly stumbling over the stalled mutt. He hadn’t noticed Bobo had stopped walking until colliding with him. Looking down, Harold expected to find his dog either sniffing the dirt path or his leg up with a drippy stream of urine spraying a patch of grass. Instead, his dog stood erect, legs stiff and unmoving, head tilted back as his wet nose slowly wiggled.

  Sniffing.

  “Whatcha smell there, buddy?” The dog didn’t acknowledge Harold’s voice. “You smell them homos, too?”

  Maybe there’re still some lingering around, out for a morning walk.

  If that was the case, then Harold wanted to be walking away from them, not toward. If they saw Bobo, they’d want to stop and pet him. Might want to make meaningless conversation while they ruffled his dog’s ears with their man-loving fingers.

  Another stench overpowered the coconut smell. This one was worse, like a combination of old rotted fish and dead animals. It seemed to be entrapped in the mist’s hazy fingers.

  Harold noticed the small patch of hair starting to rise on Bobo’s back.

  “What’s over there?”

  Bobo jerked against the leash. The momentum yanked Harold forward a couple steps. Had he not wrapped the leash around his wrist, Bobo would have gotten free.

  “What’s the matter with you, boy?”

  Something clamored—a deep hollow rattle. Harold recognized the sound even before he saw the aluminum trash can rolling slowly forward. It seemed to be coming to greet Harold but it suddenly veered to the left and went into the grass. It stopped rolling. There was nothing inside. No bags or loose trash. Just a dark emptiness.

  Another softer rattle resounded from up ahead, followed by a crash. It was too foggy to see what was causing the noise, but Harold figured it was also a trash can, this time the lid had been snatched off and thrown.

  An aggravated grunt soon followed. Then there was a quick whistling that dove into another bang. Another trash can rolled toward them.

  Bobo hunkered down, jowls twitching with a snarl. Harold tugged on the leash, trying to lead him away, but the dog just couldn’t be moved.

  “Come on, boy,” he whispered.

  Something roared. The loud rumble reverberated off the houses, feeling like a train barreling through. It fluttered Harold’s clothes, stirred his humidity-mussed hair.

  Bobo suddenly spun around and lurched between Harold’s legs. The dog’s hasty departure and large size snapped Harold’s arm down. His feet left the ground and he twirled in the air, landing on the sand-sprinkled road flat on his back. The leash unraveled from his wrist and he felt the dog go.

  Pain pulsed through his body. The wind hadn’t been knocked completely out of his lungs, but it felt as if he was trying to breathe through a pinched straw. Rolling onto his stomach, he looked up. All he could see of Bobo was his tail tucked between his legs and the red leash dragging the ground behind him. A moment later he vanished in the fog, on his way home.

  Harold shook his fist. “You traitor!”

  A piercing yelp filled the air, killing Harold’s cries. Bobo was hurt.

  “Bo…bo?”

  He stared at the swirling wall of mist as an eerie calm spread throughout. Bobo was running home, Harold didn’t doubt that. But what had been behind them to intercept his poor dog?

  Another grunt and heavy thudding footsteps followed. Harold felt his scowl slowly drop away into a panicked mask of fear. The stench grew heavier, bringing tears to his eyes as if he was inhaling pure chlorine through his nostrils. It burned the back of his throat.

  He rolled onto his back, wincing at the pain in his left hip.

  He froze when he saw the large dark figure shambling through the mist. It came from the direction Bobo had been leading him to. Something in the front and something in the back.

  Something back there got my Bobo.

  Harold’s heart sledged painfully, making his left arm feel tight and stiff.

  The curling white vapors parted, as if even they were too frightened to touch the massive shuffling frame. Harold knew what loomed before him. The whole town talked about it as if it was no big deal. But he hadn’t joined their harmless revelry.

  And now he knew why. It was damn horrifying.

  “Stay back! Go on, now!”

  It didn’t listen, creeping steadily closer.

  Harold tried to maneuver his way backwards by dragging himself on his elbows. The pain in his hip prevented him from moving too far. He dropped down, unable to move any further. What little bit of gallantry he had was used up. His bladder released. As he felt the wet warmth sloshing through the crotch of his knee-length shorts, he realized he hadn’t even known he had to pee.

  The fog thinned enough for Harold to see it: A large beast, mostly hairy except for the small atolls of scabs and pus spread across its body. Its knees were pink scabby flesh, yellowing with dark dots. Its huge head was conical and rutted. The sour fragrance emanating from its stringy hair was so repugnant now Harold’s sense of smell seemed to crash.

  Crouching next to Harold, the beast studied him curiously, coned head tilting from side to side. Another curious grunt seemed to come from its throat, like a chicken clucking at feed time. Raising its arm, the beefy hand stretched apart, fingers long and thick like sausages. Then the arm slammed down on Harold’s stomach, blasting the air from his pinched lungs. Wet tearing sounds overwhelming Harold’s dry wheezes.

  Head bobbing, Harold managed to look down at his stomach. And wished he hadn’t. If only the blow would have killed him right away, he wouldn’t have been able to lift his head at all. He could have died without seeing what was happening to him.

  He could have been spared witnessing his entrails being pulled from the deep gulley in his abdomen.

  Harold’s last vision before passing out was a long, gummy rope of intestine being fed out, the beast’s wrist twirling, innards twisting around in the same fashion he’d had Bobo’s leash around his own wrist.

  Bobo. Damn dog…left me to die…

  23

  Bubba, Mayor Caine’s bodyguard, and supposed lover, passed Striker a folded square of paper the size of a small magazine. Spreading it across the hood of Howie’s car, Paul recognized the layout as a map.

  “This is good,” said Striker. “Thanks.”

  “I figured it would be best,” said Caine.

  “Surprisingly, you figured right. This map covers the whole beach?”

  “Barefoot Beach and the surrounding secluded locations of the state park.”

  “Good.”

  Paul looked around at their crackpot assembly. There was Officer Lillard and his partner whose name he’d forgotten before but had been reminded this morning was Blake. The rotund cop fretfully sipped coffee from a cup inside a cardboard sleeve. When he brought the cup down, brown fluid seeped into his moustache. It looked pretty disgusting, like a diarrhea moustache, and Paul felt his stomach churn. He wished he hadn’t thought of that.

  Allie Styles, a female deputy, stood on the other side of Howie’s cruiser. She was heavily bosomed with a thick torso and wide firm hips. The uniform clung to her, but it wasn’t fat that made the clothes appear like they were about to explode from her body. She could give the Bigfoot a formidable fight without any backup.

  “Okay,” said Striker, uncapping a red marker. “Tell me where every sighting has occurred. Plus any attacks or any reports of pets disappearing, anything that doesn’t seem like a big deal. Even the smallest detail could lead us to the creature.”

  Howie’s eyes rose with a heavy inhale. “Well, there was the obvious killing last summer, which was right here.” He tapped the map. The paper made flimsy rattling sounds.

  “Okay.” Striker drew an
X where Howie’s finger had poked with the marker. “Where else?”

  “Possible sightings here, here, and here.”

  “Got it.” Xs were added. “Tell me everything. Don’t leave anything out, even if it doesn’t fit, I’ll mark it.”

  A few minutes passed as Howie shared the information with Striker. Paul was impressed by his brother’s memory, how he seemed to have stored every bit of information that was ever reported to his station.

  It wasn’t long before Xs were marked across the paper, some clustered together in tight groups and others spread apart in great distances. Paul listened to Howie report stories about strange noises, sightings, the roars, and several dogs and cats mysteriously vanishing without a trace. It was astonishing how so many reports could have gone ignored. How could the authorities not have known something was awry from the large number of accounts?

  Howie ended with Paul and Becky’s run-in, which wasn’t far from where the teenage girl’s body had been found.

  “That’s where it got a piece of my shirt,” Becky added.

  Striker slowly put the cap back on the marker. “It did?”

  She nodded. Her head turned slightly. “What?”

  Striker shrugged. “You didn’t mention this last night.”

  “Didn’t think it was important. Is it?”

  “It’s probably nothing.”

  Becky’s eyes widened. “Well, if it’s not, can you tell me what that look was about?”

  “Look?”

  “Yeah, you looked…perturbed.”

  Striker smiled, but on his big blocky head it looked as if it had been stitched to his face by Dr. Frankenstein. “He might’ve just liked how it smelled.”

  “I’m sorry?” she said.

  “He probably just took it back with him because he enjoyed the smell.”

  Becky’s head canted as if a weight had been added to the right side. “And what are some other possibilities?”

  “That he likes you and took it so he could have something of yours. A keepsake.”

  “Gross.”

  “It’s quite an honor, really. I must say that it’s quite possible our Bigfoot has a crush on you.”

  Paul watched the confidence drain from Becky’s posture. “What will that mean if we come across him out there?”

  Howie stepped forward, interrupting. “Enough of the Bigfoot High School gossip. Striker, what do you suggest we do from here? Where should we go?”

  “I’m working on it,” said Striker. Returning his attention to the map, he put his finger on the crinkled surface and ran it along the shapes and lines printed across. “What’s this area right here, Sheriff?”

  Paul leaned forward so he could see. Striker was poking a dark blot at the edge of the map. Not all of it was even on the page.

  “The caverns,” said Howie.

  “Caverns?”

  “Yeah. Used to be open for tours until a hurricane flooded the caves. Now it’s too damn dangerous to trek through, so it was condemned.”

  “Hmm…”

  “I know what you’re thinking,” said Howie, “and it’s crossed my mind too. I thought he might be bunking out in the caves, but we went in and didn’t find anything.”

  “Interesting,” said Striker, stroking his cleft chin.

  “What are you thinking?” asked Paul.

  “My theory here is that with a lot of sightings being in this general area here, and the recent killings and the attack last night over here, I’m willing to guess he’s somewhere in this vicinity.” He drew a circle around the dark blotch. “It’s a great place to start.”

  Howie nearly grimaced. “That’s still a lot of ground to cover.”

  “Then we should get started. How far away are we?”

  Howie shook his head. “Not very far. It’s a private stretch owned by Mayor Caine.”

  “That’s right,” agreed Caine.

  “Can the caves be accessed?”

  Caine nodded. “Sure. The parking lot’s still there from when we did the tours. We can leave the cars there and hike over. Have to do some climbing since the hurricane caused the hill to crumble. Now there’re rocks everywhere. But it can be done.”

  “We’ll have to,” said Striker. “Just need to keep people away while we’re out there.”

  Caine waved his hand, as if brushing off Striker’s suggestion. “I doubt there’ll be much trouble this time of the summer. Other than locals, there aren’t many people here, and they know not to come out there.”

  “All right,” said Striker. “Let’s head out there.”

  Howie turned to Officer Lillard. “Gather us up some gear—lanterns, lots of rope, and plenty of flashlights. Go into the storage closet and raid the water, bring as many bottles you can carry. Plus bags that will be easy to tote around all this shit in.”

  Lillard nodded. “I’m on it.” Then he headed for the backdoor to the station.

  “Wow,” said Caine. “Who would’ve thought that all this time the monster was living right underneath me, his biggest fan and supporter? Talk about irony.”

  “Shut up,” said Striker. “This is a feral beast, not some kind of children’s storybook character. It’s killed people, possibly more although we don’t know it yet, and you’re singing its praises?”

  “He’s done great for our town.”

  Striker took a step toward Caine, who stepped back throwing up his hands in surrender. Bubba stepped in the path between them. The burly black man, clothed in his customary black suit, shook his head.

  “Not now,” said Howie. “You guys can beat the shit out of each other later for all I care. But until we find this thing, you’re going to have to act like grown-ups.”

  Striker smirked. “Until that time comes.” Holding out his hand, he used his thumb to crack his knuckles on his fingers in a quick series of hollow pops.

  “Can’t wait,” said Bubba.

  It was the first time Paul had heard the big guy speak, and he found Bubba’s voice unusually high and feminine.

  “Get the stuff out of the car,” Caine told Bubba, then gave his back a few quick slaps.

  Bubba kept his eyes focused on Striker another moment before turning away. He nodded once and started for the gleaming BMW.

  “What stuff?” asked Howie.

  “We’re going to document this, of course,” said Caine.

  “Document?” Howie looked pained. He shook his head. “How are you…?”

  A door bumped. Heads turned to watch Bubba reach into the backseat of Caine’s BMW. When they came back out, they held some kind of harness. Bubba started slipping his hands through the holes.

  “Video it,” said Caine, answering everyone’s question. “We’ll need it if Ms. Aniston plans on doing her story.”

  Howie turned to Becky. “Did you know about this?”

  “Well…” Becky looked down, shrugged. “Yeah.” She reached into the pocket of her tight khaki shorts and brandished her voice recorder.

  “Damn,” said Howie.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  Paul wanted to be angry but knew she was probably forced into the situation. Knowing how badly she wanted to do the story, Caine had approached her at some point to share his plan.

  I ought to punch the asshole in the face.

  Striker’s laughter made them all turn around. He leaned against Howie’s SUV, arms folded over his chest. “You’re all a bunch of damn fools.”

  Becky turned to Paul, hurt showing on her face. Her mouth moved without words.

  “Ignore him,” said Caine. “Are you ready to shoot the opening segment?”

  Becky closed her eyes, nodded.

  “Great,” said Caine. “Right here will be fine.”

  “I don’t believe this,” said Howie. Shaking his head, he walked over to Striker and dropped against the Suburban beside the hulky man. He mirrored Striker’s stance.

  Bubba, snapping a video camera to the stem extended from the center of the harness, approached Becky. He fol
ded out the LCD screen and flipped a switch. There was a soft beep and the camera came on with the slow whirring of tape being pulled through the heads.

  Styles stepped beside Paul, looking disgusted as she watched Becky fix her hair. Even Paul was a bit bothered by Becky’s inappropriate spectacle of her appearance. Realizing what she was doing, Becky stopped and looked at her hand as if it had violated her somehow. She slowly lowered it to her side.

  Caine stood behind Bubba, his eyes fixed on the LCD screen. “The camera loves you, Ms. Aniston. So gorgeous.”

  Ignoring his remark, she said, “Is it on?”

  Bubba held up his finger, then lowered it to the camera’s top. He pushed a button. Then he raised his hand and silently counted down from three with his fingers.

  When he reached one, Becky nodded.

  “I’m Becky Anniston and we’re here at the Seashell Cove Sheriff’s Department, about to embark on a very dangerous journey into the prohibited caverns that run underneath the city…”

  Paul watched as Becky delivered an amazing performance of a rehearsed introduction. No doubt she’d stayed up all night making sure she got it just right. She laid out their plans and gave a brief account of the Bigfoot’s actions over the past year. Her voice remained a constant professional tenor as she spoke without error.

  When she finished, Becky waited for Bubba to give her the signal that he’d cut off the camera. Then she stepped out of the camera’s view, looking like a girl who’d just given her virginity away to a guy who didn’t deserve it.

  “Wonderful,” said Caine. “Ms. Aniston, this is going to make you a star.”

  Paul noted her expression. There was no pride anywhere on her lovely face, only a grim frown that made her look years older.

  24

  Beach?

  Gunner sat on the edge of his bed, gazing at his phone’s display screen. He’d read and reread the one word message countless times, trying to decide how to respond. Megan had sent him the text a few minutes ago. He wasn’t sure if she was asking him to go to the beach or if he was at the beach.